The Language of Flowers
by Garrae
Summary: "Suddenly it occurred to her that Castle was a wordsmith. A man who used language... And, therefore, she should be looking at the meaning of the plants he'd picked." Castle tries to win Beckett's heart in the oldest way possible. S1 AU, with flowers.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Valentine's Day, Beckett thought glumly, was nothing more than an excuse for dumbass so-called boyfriends to think that half a dozen drooping red roses and a box of cheap chocolates would make up for any amount of being an arrogant, chauvinistic idiot. For – _not_ a random – example: informing her that they'd be moving to Boston, getting married, and she'd be happy with two children and a suburban home.

Which was why Will _sonofabitch_ Sorenson was currently exiting her building with his tail between his legs (he was damn lucky she hadn't shot it off, but she was pretty certain that he wouldn't learn how to use it any better in the future since he hadn't learned anything about using it properly for the last six months, so he could keep the useless appendage) and with her absolute refusal to go along with his pig-assed stupidity ringing in his ears, along with profanities of which a sailor would be proud.

Red fucking roses. If they symbolised true love, there would be about six sold every year, in total. Still, she'd kept them, rather than shoving half of them down his throat – thorny stems first – and the other half up his ass (also thorny stems first), put them in a vase with some plant food and watched them straighten up. And even if that bastard Sorenson wouldn't spring for Godiva or Marie-Belle, even cheap chocolate was chocolate. She ate it, and savoured every munch; drew the scent of the roses into her lungs, and felt herself well rid of him. Fed most-_definitely_ Ex.

Several weeks later, the roses had long died, taking considerably longer than any love she might have had for Sorenson. However, she had another problem. Rick rich-spoilt-arrogant-asshole Castle. Sadly unlikely to die, unless she shot him right through the centre of his smug, smirking smile. (Which was not at all sexy. No sirree.) Men, she thought crossly, should depart from her life as swiftly as cut flowers died.

Even more regrettably, Castle appeared to have pulled some strings and become a fixture. Rooted, like invasive bamboo, or Japanese knotweed, and just as pervasively infuriating and difficult to remove. Beckett considered the many fine properties of belladonna, foxgloves and aconites, and decided that they were less obvious than bullets, and had the benefit of pretty flowers into the bargain. She'd go off to Rozina's Florals, and see what Roz could do for her.

Of course she didn't, though no-one would have detected the poison under the appalling taste of the precinct coffee. She'd have been caught, and life without parole wasn't in her game plan. Though at least Castle wouldn't be in her cell. She harrumphed, and buried her head in her paperwork. That way she needn't look at the smirk. And there definitely, absolutely definitely, was no memory _whatsoever_ of the sexy smile between her and the forms. None. She harrumphed again, and wished for an instant-onset thorn hedge to spring up between her desk and Castle, the bullpen, and the rest of the world. The hundred years of sleep would be nice, too. She was tired, and it had nothing to do with her scorching dreams: of course it didn't.

Castle casually leaned back on his chair, concealed his wince as a spring prodded his buttock, and openly ogled Beckett. He'd been here for three weeks now, and the best he'd got from her was a glare that would only level Manhattan, rather than the entire continent. It was quite deeply unfair, and not a little irritating. Anyone who could say _you have no idea_ in a tone that would arouse a tree should be receptive to his wit, charm, and talents in the bedroom. Especially when he was perfectly certain she was interested, and merely playing (very) hard to get.

Flirting hadn't worked. Heated glances and innuendo hadn't worked. Compliments hadn't worked (she really did have beautiful eyes: it was just a shame that their gaze was more akin to a female Scott Summers than to a lover). Asking her out to dinner had simply resulted in her sexy words, a perfect view of her swaying ass, and an extremely uncomfortable evening trying, totally hopelessly, to mitigate the arousal he felt every time he thought of her. And asking her out had also failed to bring her on a date.

Everything had failed.

Castle didn't like failing. He especially didn't like failing with sexy, beautiful women. Even more especially, he didn't like failing with intelligent, inspiring (and beautiful, sexy) women. He tapped his fingers restlessly. What to do, what to do…

A-ha! Beckett, it was true, was liberated, independent, strong-minded (far too much so), and absolutely dedicated to her job. No-one in their right senses would have described her as feminine (staunchly _feminist_, though), more (he searched his mental thesaurus for the right word)…um…_Amazonian_. But… he'd never yet met a woman who didn't like being given flowers.

Not just any flowers, however. Oh, no. Castle's devious brain began to flesh out a plot. _Appropriate_ flowers. Flowers that would send some very specific messages. Oh, yes. A silent conversation, leading to the right result. His bed. Or hers: he wasn't particular, as long as the two of them were in it.

Now, where to begin? Ah yes. Holly. Carefully hidden by a whole bunch (he snickered, and received a fearsomely vicious glare – about 10 on the Beckett scale, which equated to the instant destruction of a small country, or possibly Connecticut) of other plants which had thorns or prickles: pyracantha, hawthorn blossom – but absolutely no roses – surrounding holly. If he paid his usual florist enough, she'd make anything into a flower arrangement, and bring blooms from anywhere. Holly. He grinned happily to himself. How appropriate.

Three days later, Castle had made all his arrangements, and turned up at the Twelfth with delighted anticipation, which he just about managed to conceal. Beckett shot him a number of suspicious stares, which he greeted with bland flirtation. Around lunchtime, she went out, blatantly blanking him – and he dashed out to meet the florist. He'd been quite certain Beckett would give him the lunchtime cold shoulder.

He returned, and happily awaited developments.

"What the _hell_ is that?" Beckett emitted, in a muffled screech, directed very firmly at Castle. "What have you done?"

"What?" he said innocently.

"These!" Beckett gestured intemperately at the arrangement on her desk.

"It was a bit bare. Desks shouldn't be bare." He grinned wolfishly. "Other things, now…" His heated look made it perfectly clear what he meant.

"Shut up or I _will_ shoot you."

Castle shut up, but smirked happily. He smirked even more when Beckett didn't ram the flowers into the trash can – or his mouth.

At the end of the day, the arrangement was still decorating Beckett's desk. Castle had bitten his tongue into shreds _not_ drawing her attention to it, in case that changed. He wandered home, well content.

Beckett preserved a calm countenance – well, calm with her normal overlay of aggravated irritation – until the bullpen emptied. And then she picked up the flower arrangement and took it home with her. Of course, she wouldn't tell Castle that. He could think they'd gone in the trash. She absolutely would _not_ let him know that she really, really loved flowers.

However. Even in their short acquaintance (which could usefully have been even shorter, not to say non-existent, she fibbed to herself), she'd learned that anything Castle did had an ulterior motive, hidden meaning, or both. Sure, flowers were a seduction technique, but she was dead certain sure and _positive_ there was something else going on.

The inside of her stomach presently curled around an excellent take-out, and sipping at a glass of wine, Beckett considered the arrangement. Hmm. Hawthorn – mayflowers. Pyracantha. Holly. Hrrumph. Everything with thorns. Yes, she was spiky, edged, prickly, and painful to people who rubbed her up the wrong way or didn't treat her with considerable caution. But that seemed far too obvious for Castle's corkscrew-twisted, devious, sneaky mind; though she was also sure that it had been a serendipitous side-product.

She pondered for a while, savouring her wine. Suddenly it occurred to her that Castle was a wordsmith. A man who used language. (She very carefully didn't think that that made him a cunning linguist. She abominated bad puns. And Castle. Certain muscles clenched in disbelief.) And, therefore, she should be looking at the meaning of the plants he'd picked.

Hawthorn. Hm. Cleansing and chastity? _Castle_? The last thing he wanted her to be was chaste. In fact, he wanted her to be thoroughly dirty and unchaste – with him. Okay, whatever he was trying to tell her, it wasn't the hawthorn.

Pyracantha. _Sharp_ thorns, and scarlet berries. It didn't seem to have a meaning beyond its name: firethorn. Well, she was fiery and if Castle tried to pluck her he'd find that she had thorns. Nine-millimetre, which would arrive with a bang. Possible, she supposed, but it didn't really feel right.

(She didn't wonder why, or how, she already knew that it _didn't feel right_ for a Castle concoction. _Because you're interested, _said a little voice in her head. She ignored it.)

Holly. Ah. Oh. _Oh!_ Protection. Defence. Vigilance.

Was that how he saw her? A small, warm bloom grew in her chest. Protective, vigilant – and defensive. It shrank again. Or a _defender_? It grew. Defensive or defending – or could it be both? The twin meanings chased each other around her head, assisted by the wine. Was he _admiring_ her, or disparaging her? He hadn't exactly given the impression that he admired anything more than her looks.

But if he actually admired something more…then that might be very different. If the heat in his eyes wasn't _only_ sexual…then she might allow her own responses to peep out.

_What?_ Respond? Was she crazy? He was a playboy who wanted another notch on his bedpost, and nothing more. She wouldn't be a notch. Or anywhere near his bedpost. She harrumphed her way through the evening, a shower and to bed, and woke feeling as prickly as the bouquet in its vase, largely because her dreams had been _totally_ inappropriate.

A week passed with nothing more untoward occurring. Castle's smirk was as infuriating (and sexy) as ever, and Beckett's glare achieved world-burning intensity. (So did her dreams, in a very different style.) The bouquet drooped, died, and went into the trash.

Precisely five days after the first bouquet had been delivered, Castle visited his florist again, with another set of very specific instructions. A similarly precise one week after her desk had first been defiled, Beckett arrived back from her solitary lunch to find a bouquet of ferns, surrounding a centre of blue blooms.

"What are _those_?"

"Ferns," Castle smirked. "Surely you know that?"

"The blue stuff."

"Oh. Blue angel." Beckett growled. "Don't you like Dietrich? Would you have preferred Blue Velvet?" Her hand dropped to her hip. Castle shut up, but his wide grin and wicked eyes spoke volumes. Beckett shifted the bouquet so that he was invisible behind it, and ignored him all afternoon. She also ignored, which was considerably more difficult, the urge to look up the meanings of the plants.

Castle bounced cheerfully home, wondering if Beckett had worked out what was going on yet. She hadn't dumped his flowers in the trash, and she'd had that adorable little crease between her brows which _couldn't_ have been the (infinitely tedious pop-and-drop) case, which meant she was thinking… and she'd ignored him even harder than usual, which always meant he'd gotten to her. Well, with a little bit of luck he'd find out – though there was only a million-to-one chance that she'd accept the invitation. He could always repeat it next week, though, if so, he was planning a different commentary.

Beckett strode home, one cadence short of a stomp, bearing her flowers and desperate to find out what Castle had "said" this time. She didn't even pause to make herself coffee before she was tapping out a search, safely out of view of nosy co-workers, Castle, and the boys, who were likely to start down a path leading to their destruction at Beckett's irritated hands (and Glock) if Castle produced any more flowers.

She clicked, and stared, mouth opening and closing fruitlessly. Somehow none of her extensive collection of profanity (mainly learned from Esposito) seemed to cover her feelings.

Fern. That better not be _Maidenhair _fern, or Castle would never be able to please a maiden, woman, mother, crone or anything in between _ever _again. That – "Aaarrrarrrrgghhhhhhhhhh!" she screeched, unable to describe him adequately. She read the screen again. Fern: magic, fascination, confidence and shelter. She screeched wordlessly again, and then poured herself a very large vodka, added at least four drops of tonic and downed it. The refill went the same way.

She forced herself to stop, and searched for Blue Angel flowers. Several results came up. She peered at the flowers and the images, wished futilely that she'd waited before downing the second vodka, and eventually decided that they were probably something called _viscaria._ She looked it up. Then she swore violently at the innocent computer, which cringed in every silicon circuit.

_Will you dance with me_?

No, she wouldn't. Abso-fricking-lutely not. No _way_.

Castle didn't say a word about the flowers. About eleven, Beckett couldn't repel the idiocy twitching at her tongue any longer.

"No, I won't go dancing with you," she growled.

"I knew you wouldn't," Castle grinned.

He _what_? He should be disconcerted, or even a little upset at being turned down. Instead he was _grinning_? He _knew_ she wouldn't? Why even ask, then?

"I'm an extremely good dancer," he continued, with breathtaking arrogance. "I only dance with people who meet my standards. But I knew you'd refuse so it really didn't matter. I just liked the colour."

_What?_ She _wasn't up to his standards_? That arrogant _sonofabitch_. She could _too_ dance. Better than he could, she reckoned. He didn't know anything at all about her past, but as part of her season's modelling there had been dance instruction. She'd been top of the class. She'd show that –

Hang on a minute. Oh, come _on_, Kate. She could see the shape of that game, and she wasn't going to play. Try to annoy her into changing her mind, would he? Oh, no. She wasn't going to fall into that trap.

"As it happens," she purred, a feline smile on her lips, "I can dance extremely well myself. You're unlikely to meet my standards." She slowly surveyed him. "You're a little too…" her pause made it clear the next word would be insulting, and her gaze rested at his belt… "wide."

Castle scowled. "I am a perfect weight," he snapped.

"Of course you are," Beckett said insincerely. Of course, he was, but she certainly wasn't going to let his pathetically transparent attempts to manipulate her pass unanswered. She returned to her work.

Castle sat. He wasn't sulking. He never sulked, so he couldn't possibly be sulking now. He was, however, a touch disappointed that his tactic hadn't worked. Well. Had totally failed. Beckett, he thought crossly, was far too good an investigator for his comfort. He'd been so sure that she'd get angry and defensive and challenge him to take her dancing so she could prove that she could dance. (He'd want to dance with her even if she trod on his toes until they broke, if it meant he could hold her close for an evening.) It wasn't _fair_ that she was so smart.

He'd simply need to ramp it up. At least now he knew that she'd worked out what he was doing, so… he'd keep on doing it until she caved – or shot him, which was just as likely.

Beckett floated home on a cloud of smugly triumphant self-satisfaction and approval of her own self-control, punctuated by the happy memory of being able to look Castle up and down, slowly, without it appearing that she was eyeing him up. Perfect. _And_ she still had the pretty flowers to brighten her apartment.

In celebration, she bought herself some excellent chocolate on the way home, and enjoyed every deliciously sweet bite, luxuriously slowly. She _adored_ chocolate, especially as the culmination of a pleasant meal with which she'd enjoyed an equally pleasant glass of wine. It had been an excellent day.

A little thought squiggled around the fractals of her frontal lobes. It said, cheerfully mischievous, that she could retaliate in kind. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed good to her. She spent the remainder of the evening in a happy cloud of evilly mischievous planning.

Of course, she didn't have Castle's infinite budget, but her messages were a great deal simpler, and much cheaper. She waited for two days – this would be on her timetable, not Castle's.

"Roz," she said to the florist on Monday morning, "I need your help."

"Sure, Kate. What do you want? Roses? Tulips?"

"Nope. I want a bouquet that says that I'm happily single and not looking for anyone."

Roz raised her eyebrows. "You've had some thoughts about how, haven't you? What's the story? Who is he?"

"There's this guy…"

"Yeah. I'd guessed that."

"Well, he's giving me flowers with messages. I mean, the flowers are the message. So I wanna retaliate."

Roz's brows rose higher. "And you definitely don't like this guy."

"Nope." Beckett popped the 'p' definitively. "He's an arrogant ass."

"Okay, so what were you thinking about?"

"Well, I don't wanna spend too much, so I was thinking maybe bachelor's button, candytuft, and some monkshood."

"Wow. You really don't like this guy, do you?"

"Nope."

"Just don't feed him the monkshood, okay? I don't want to be charged as an accessory."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Roz quirked her eyebrows.

"I wouldn't. The ME would spot it."

"That's more like it. I'll have it ready by tomorrow. You can pick it up any time after seven a.m."

"How much would delivery be?"

Roz grinned. "How many of these are you planning on doing?"

Beckett shrugged at her. "Don't know, but likely more than two."

"First delivery free, then, if you're gonna do three. If you don't, it'll be $10 on top of the second bouquet cost."

"Okay. I'll decide about delivery later."

Beckett swung into the precinct with a seraphic smile which instantly told the whole bullpen that something dreadful was imminent. When Castle arrived, the humming sense of anticipation was almost palpable, and the disappointment when nothing immediate occurred, (such as his public dismemberment, which Beckett had threatened on several occasions) could be heard. Beckett carefully didn't hear it. The bullpen had no business gossiping about her, and she was already so totally over their indiscreet speculations. If it continued, she was considering lacing the ground coffee with ipecac, which would have the handy result of getting Castle out of the way for a day or three too.

She was so pleased with her own idea that she forgot to glare at Castle until after lunchtime, and even then she only managed a half-strength effort. At least half of her neurons were speculating on whether she wanted to see his face as he worked out the message, or whether she wanted to ensure he never entered the precinct again. On balance, she wanted to see his face, after which she would wish him a civil farewell and never be annoyed by him ever again.

She firmly ignored the irritating little squiggle in her brain which was trying (and failing) to tell her that playing the game wasn't going to get rid of Castle: it was simply going to encourage him.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_Four chapters of M-fluff, with flowers. Usual schedule, Sun/Tue/Thu._

_I have a long story in the works, too._

_For those of you who don't know, my original novel, Death in Focus (SR Garrae) is available on Amazon. A sequel is in production._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Castle simply could _not_ work out his next coded message. Still a touch discomfited that his reverse psychology hadn't worked, he pored through the meanings of flowers until his head spun. Too many flowers were more direct than he wanted to be – at this stage; too many were totally unsubtle. Not that he wished to be subtle, but the romantic-novel trope of sweeping her into his arms and kissing hell out of her had, at best, a one percent chance of working and a one-hundred percent chance of him being killed even if the one percent chance occurred. Those weren't good odds, and Castle liked his life and intended to enjoy it for as long as possible.

It was just that he'd like to enjoy it with Beckett, in his lovely wide bed.

On Monday, he sauntered in with a good assumption of his normal cheerfully arrogant confidence, and was instantly put on full alert by the air of expectation – and the several hundred sidelong glances – among the bullpen. His worry-tending-to-terror was not assuaged in the slightest by Beckett's air of contentment and her lack of world-destroying glares. At the end of the day his nerves were shredded and he was almost ready to confess every misdeed he'd ever committed, right back to stealing the C-for-Crocus piece from a backstage jigsaw puzzle.

When he wandered in on Tuesday, he was simultaneously appalled and aggravated by the presence of a bunch of flowers already on Beckett's desk. That was _his_ trick. No-one else should be giving her flowers. He didn't want any competition. There were far too many good looking cops, EMTs, firefighters – there was even that guy Nolan who'd apparently come in as practically a rookie from LAPD, God knows how because Castle was damn sure the NYPD had an age limit. He'd even been mistaken for Nolan, once. Ridiculous. He was far more handsome and a lot younger.

He glared at the flowers, which didn't disappear, and then pouted, which didn't help either.

"Hey," he said. "Who's brought you flowers?"

Beckett produced a feral smile. "These? Oh, these aren't for me. These are for you."

His jaw dropped. "Me? Nobody buys me flowers."

"I guess it's your lucky day, then." She dropped her gaze to her papers, to end the conversation.

"Who sent them?"

She shrugged. Something about it was off, though. She was sneaking looks through her lashes. Castle regarded the flowers carefully, and then pulled out his phone and started searching. He preserved a totally calm countenance, though inwardly he couldn't decide whether to rage or to cheer. Rage, because she might as well have slapped his face in public. Cheer, because now she was playing his game, whether she knew it or not.

"Very nice," he said, snapped off one of the bachelor's buttons and threaded it through the lapel buttonhole of his sport coat. "Totally appropriate."

"You've spoiled the symmetry," Beckett pointed out.

"No-one will notice. I'll take them home. They'll look nice in my study."

"You could take them now," she snarked.

"No, no. I'm going to sit here and admire them. Such a smart choice of blooms," he said, also edged with snark. "After all, I'm single, and definitely wary of predatory fans."

"It doesn't go with your coat."

"My reputation for sartorial elegance will carry it off. It'll probably be in fashion by the end of the week." Beckett rolled her eyes, and comprehensively ignored him for the next hour. Castle contemplated his "language of flowers" table, and his next move. It certainly wouldn't involve candytuft.

Eventually, he settled on a cactus. He'd thought about several variants on fickleness – after all, half the time she flirted and the other half she ran like a rabbit – but then realised that if the idea was to pull her into his arms, insulting her probably wouldn't work. A cactus would be just _fine_. And the spikes were pretty appropriate, too. She had more prickles than a prickly pear. Still he was going to persevere, and the cactus was the closest plant that he could find for showing that.

Beckett retreated to her apartment after work, more than slightly annoyed. Castle should have been irritated and leaving, not putting flowers in his buttonhole and making sardonic comments. She'd just have to be a lot more obvious next time. Foxgloves, belladonna and aconite. Yeah. And if he put them in his buttonhole then maybe some pollen would fall into his coffee. Serve him right. She wouldn't miss him at all. Not one whit. (_Sure,_ said a little voice. _You just tell yourself that_.)

She glanced at the, still beautiful, flowers from last Thursday. Of course she wouldn't have wanted to go dancing with him. Definitely not. They wouldn't suit. (_He's just the right height for you in heels_, the annoying little voice pointed out.) She didn't need a boyfriend. The last one was a complete washout, among many other descriptors that she might have used. Another one was not required. (_It's been almost three months. You're wallowing. And frustration isn't good for you_.) That was why toys were invented. (_Big strong men are better._) Not if they were arrogant playboys. (_Plenty of experience. Ought to be able to use it properly._) She drowned the voice in coffee and some chocolate ice-cream that she found at the bottom of her freezer, which improved her mood enormously, and then some bubblegum TV and an equally bubblegum book, which was absolutely _not_ one of Castle's.

And then she went to sleep and dreamed extremely explicit dreams, which started with dancing and ended…hot. The following night was just the same, which was _infuriating._ Castle had no business invading her dreams.

On Thursday, when Beckett disappeared for lunch, Castle obtained the cactus. He was very proud of his inventiveness, though he did feel rather sorry for any fellow passengers should she take public transportation home.

"What the" – there was a mouth-slammed-shut pause in which many unspoken and profane words were clearly heard by the entire, snickering-from-a-place-of-safety, bullpen – "is _that_?" Beckett had returned from her lunch break, and she was _not_ happy.

"Are you not a detective, Detective?" Castle asked innocently, regarding her desk with considerable smugness.

"Yes," she bit.

"Surely you recognise a cactus when you see one, then."

"Cacti" –

"So hot," Castle murmured –

"Aren't usually murder suspects."

He smiled seraphically.

"Though I'm sure they've been the murder _weapon_." Her face said _this one will be_.

Castle contemplated the two-foot cactus, with a cheerfully bright red flower atop it. "It's lovely, isn't it? It grows a bit bigger. I hope you've got space in your apartment."

Beckett looked very much as if she was considering a very different home for the cactus: the only question was from which direction it would enter his stomach.

"It doesn't need any love and attention. It'll just sit there and be happy."

"How fortunate. It won't get any."

Castle was certain that Beckett wasn't referring to the plant. "It'll still be perfectly happy," he said, and he wasn't referring to the plant either.

Slightly later, he noticed with some amusement that Beckett was Googling the meaning of a cactus, and from her lemon-pursed expression didn't like the answer. Good. And even better, that was a _very_ speculative look. He smiled sweetly, and then turned up the wattage and the heat.

_Oooohhhh. You're blushing, Beckett. Indifferent, my ass._ Castle instantly altered his plans for the rest of the day. He had been going to let Beckett take the cactus home all by herself, but not now. He'd be…um…_helpful_. Yeah. Helpful.

In pursuit of _helpfulness_, not to mention self-help, he brought Beckett more coffee than he usually would and favoured her with his high-wattage _I-am-totally-interested-in-you-alone_ smile. Regrettably, its effect waned the more often he tried it. It didn't change his plans for later.

At shift end, Castle was still there. Beckett didn't approve. He should go home on paperwork days, not sit around inflicting a million-watt smile on her and forcing her to cover up her over-heating thoughts. That infuriating smile went straight to her core, and she was _totally_ fed up of it. (_Yeah. Because you can't _– Won't! - _ do anything about it. You should take him home. That'd cure your frustration._) She was _not_ frustrated. (_Su-ure you're not. That's why you needed a new pack of batteries._) She had not. (_Did so_.)

"I'm going home," she snipped.

"Already? It's only half an hour after shift finished. Got a hot date?"

"No. Not that it's any of your business."

"Anyway," Castle said, ignoring all snippiness, "it's about time you stopped. I was getting bored of waiting for you."

"Why are _you_ waiting? I don't need you here to finish my work. I'd finish a lot quicker if you weren't there."

"Oooohhhh, I'm a distraction."

"Yes."

"Distracted by my rugged handsomeness. That's so sweet of you." He simpered. Beckett considered vomiting all over his shoes.

"No. Distracted by your endless dumb questions and annoyingness." She remembered her point. "Why are you waiting?"

"I'm going to help you with the cactus."

"What?"

"I'm going to help you take the cactus home. You can't take it on the subway."

"Which is why I was intending to take it home in my car."

"You need someone to hold on to it. Otherwise it might shift and spike you, and then you'd cause an accident, and how could you ever live with yourself if your cactus caused an injury?"

Beckett boggled at him. "It's going in the trunk."

"It's too tall. You can't put it on its side, all the soil will fall out."

Beckett didn't seem to think that a problem.

"And then you'll have to clean it all up."

Her face changed. Cleaning up obviously wasn't her favourite thing.

"O-_kay_," she said, in a put upon tone. "You can escort the cactus."

It became clear that Beckett's view of cactus-escort duty differed quite substantially from Castle's right around the point in which she opened the rear door of her car.

"Okay. Put the seatbelt on the cactus and then you sit next to it and make sure it doesn't shift. If it does, you catch it."

"But" –

"Nope. If it jabs me, and I cause an accident, it'll be your fault. So you'd better make sure it doesn't move." She smiled nastily. "Hope you've got some gloves."

Castle stared at her. He just _knew_ she was going to ensure she took the corners fast enough to wobble the cactus.

"Get in," she ordered.

He took his expensive sport coat off, and prepared to sacrifice it to the gods of NASCAR, with whom he was convinced Beckett had made a deal. He knew how she could drive if she needed to move fast – and it meant that _he_ needed sedatives. He'd damn near needed clean pants, too. The spikes of the cactus regarded him evilly, points, he was convinced, especially barbed. He could see Beckett's smirk in the rear view mirror.

Astonishingly, she drove sedately to her apartment, and the cactus didn't wobble once: not that this helped Castle's nerves. One of those spikes could easily stab him through the jugular without the plant – or indeed Beckett - caring.

Beckett, who badly wanted to take the corners at cactus-spilling speed, forced herself to stay on the high moral ground. Plus, of course, she probably couldn't afford to replace Castle's undoubtedly designer sport coat if the cactus tore it apart. Plus again, if there were any tearing apart to be done, it would be by her, to Castle. The cactus wasn't getting any of the fun. It could wait in line. (_Yeah, right. Who do you think you're fooling? You want to fool around._) She didn't. (_Liar._)

Castle didn't have to be asked to carry the cactus, but Beckett made sure she was plastered to the opposite side of the elevator to avoid any scratches. She took some pleasure in Castle's nervous care to ensure that his face was well away from the plant.

Once in her apartment, a whole new problem appeared. There was nowhere to put a two-foot cactus that didn't involve major rearrangement of an already full floor space. Castle hadn't thought of that, clearly, from the stunned-ox expression on his face.

"There's nowhere to put it," he whined.

"So keep holding it, then."

"It's heavy."

"You bought it. You could take it home with you."

"It's your present. I couldn't possibly take something that's so perfectly suited to you." Beckett clamped her lips shut on a vitriolic response. Castle, undeterred, continued to improve the atmosphere. "I mean, yes, it's got very sharp prickles, but when you get past those it's beautiful, and it has a succulent centre. I love succulents, you know." She managed a strangulated gasp, and further managed _not_ to draw her gun. "Sedums, for example."

Why hadn't she shot him at the first opportunity? (_Because you wanted to tip him into bed at first sight and not let him leave for a week. The only reason you haven't is because he's been chasing you even harder and you're keeping him guessing. Meanie._) Nonsense. She'd hated his smug smile on sight. (_Only because it wasn't between your legs._) She could always shoot him now, and hide the body. Lanie would – Lanie wouldn't help. Lanie would tell her to jump his bones, while they were still alive.

There was a click-thud. Castle had put the cactus down, and was surveying the apartment speculatively.

"Is this all of it?" he said.

"Huh?"

"Where do you sleep?"

"None of your business." He was not not _not_ peeping into her bedroom. It was her _private _space, in which she didn't have to be Badass Beckett, the Terror of the Twelfth. He'd never let her live it down if he saw it.

He took two long strides to the only door that was shut, and opened it before she could shriek _Stop!_

"Ooooohhhhhh." He turned round. "I would never have guessed."

"Shut up."

"It's just" –

"Shut. Up."

"But it's so" –

"This is my Glock."

He finally shut up, but his eyes were dancing and a smile was threatening to split his head in half. She put her gun away in its safe, in icy silence. Shooting Richard Castle, however tempting, would end badly, though at least he would be out of her hair.

While she was cogitating on corpses – or the chance of one Castle-corpse – the man himself was impertinently and unrepentantly surveying her bedroom again, humming happily.

"Get out of there."

"It's research."

"You _what _now?"

"Research. For Nikki."

Beckett boggled. "You are peeping into _my bedroom_ like some perverted voyeur and calling it _research_?" She took three fast steps and hauled him round.

Tried to haul him round.

Castle, it transpired, was not very haulable, and she'd lost the opportunity to go for his nose or ears. In fact, she'd lost the opportunity to do much of anything, because he'd caught her wrists: not hard, but firmly.

"That's not nice," he said plaintively, giving her huge, blue, puppy eyes.

"Prying into my bedroom isn't nice." (_Holding on to you is nice, though. Isn't he lovely and large? And just look at those luscious lips._) She jerked her gaze back to his (_gorgeous blue, you could drown in those_) eyes. "You shouldn't be in here."

"Oh," he purred, slathering sex through every syllable, "I really think I should." At that point she noticed that his hands had dropped to her back and were holding her in. And _her_ traitorous hands hadn't left his shoulders. "I think you should let me in."

Beckett wasn't at all sure that he merely meant into her bedroom. She wasn't at all sure of anything right now, because Castle was right up close and with the slightest encouragement would be getting very personal indeed. (_You want to encourage him._) She didn't. (_You're staring at his lips again._) She wasn't. (_Now. You were staring a second ago._) She hadn't been. (_Liar. And you're doing it again._)

She became aware that his motionless hands were sending sparks up and down her spine and every synapse. All she would have to do was lean in and… oh. She'd leaned in. (_And puckered up, too._)

Castle's lips hit hers, and everything exploded. She dived in, hands grabbing his neck, knotting in his hair to pull him down and closer; his hands locked around her and dragging her into hard body and hot weight; frantic explorations and forays; a war for control and conquest that neither one could win and neither one would concede. She tugged out his shirt and slid her hand on to his back; he retaliated in kind and it _burned_ where he touched so she bit his lip and he clamped over her thigh and brought her leg up and he was _right there_ rubbing against her and still ravaging her mouth as hard as she was taking his because there was just _no way_ she was going to let him have it all his way even if he felt so good and knew exactly what to do and _ohhhhhh_ he could do it some more, lots more, all the time as long as she could too _ohhhhhhhh._

Thinking wasn't happening for Castle. Beckett had leaned in and puckered up and after that his brain had nothing at all to do with events. It didn't need to. He knew _exactly_ what to do with a hot, aggressive Beckett, worked out over weeks of intense observation, frustration, and cogitation. Not to mention the dreams. All the dreams, day or night. And now they were reality. Her hand was under his shirt and it was _electric_: shocking him into uncontrolled arousal. He surged in, gripping her close and bringing her leg around his hip: her legs so long that she was precisely aligned against his groin as she stood. His palm covered her slim ass and he rolled against her and _oh fuck_ that felt so good and he dived back into her mouth and she _nipped_ him again and then soothed the sting and there were altogether far too many buttons on her shirt and he could barely get fingers between them to undo her one-handed but he wouldn't be defeated by _fabric_ when Beckett was _finally _in his arms and under his mouth and just as fired up and aroused and desperate as he was.

Her shirt fell away at last and _ohhhh_ _that_ was gorgeous. Sleek skin and soft satin in teal blue, nipples proud, flesh a little fuller than he'd expected and she would fit his hands perfectly and indeed so she did. She emitted a tiny sob-mew as he scraped a thumb over the satin shield and pressed into his hips, frantically trying to strip his shirt away and catch up; ripping it open and welding skin to skin.

They tumbled into the bedroom, fused together.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests whom I can't thank directly._

_Shameless self-promotion - because if I don't, who else will? - Death in Focus is available for FREE on Kindle Unlimited._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Beckett twisted so that Castle hit the bed first, landing on his back as she fell on top of him and kept her mouth locked on his, pinning him down and winning control –

For all of two seconds. Castle rolled them and pinned her down in turn, pressing her into her lace-trimmed lilac coverlet, clasping her hands by her ears and swooping to conquer her mouth before she could react, using size and weight to keep her there. She wasn't trying to escape: opening to ensure he pressed in the right way, in the right place. But…

She snapped her hands free and had his pants open before he knew it, shoving them downward as far as she could reach before Castle reacted. He stopped kissing her, and smiled down, wholly predatory.

"That's cheating," he growled gently, and took her hands away. She smiled back, feline and sensuous, and moved a little beneath him. "My turn," and the growl wasn't so gentle any more. He brought her wrists together in one broad hand, settled them on her stomach, and balanced precariously on one elbow. "There."

His free hand dextrously undid her pants and slipped them free of her hips, assisted by a small shimmy.

"Nice," was all he said, but his eyes blazed as he took in the brief panties and the lean, lithe form which they graced.

She raised her head and shoulders, and slowly looked him over. "Nice," she said in exactly the same possessive, predatory tone that he'd used.

He smiled wickedly, and slowly leaned down, allowing her to anticipate, watching her pupils dilate and her lips part; and then he planted a wet, dirty kiss between her breasts and moved slowly downward, tracing a line to her navel with the tip of his tongue and then pausing as he reached her hands. He sat back on his heels, releasing her hands, and raked his hot gaze over her, noting the flush of her arousal and the unconscious flex of her pelvis towards him.

"Someone you want?"

She quirked a sardonic eyebrow, which despite her semi-naked state managed to convey utter cynicism and disinterest. "Should I?"

"Well, usually by the time people get to this stage, it's pretty clear."

"I thought there was something _you_ wanted. You weren't being very subtle with your messages."

Castle grinned. "You got the message, though. Seems like you might have been looking for a message."

"_You_ didn't get the message," she said crossly, and produced a sulky scowl that nevertheless managed to be sultrily inviting.

"You didn't follow through. I did. And since you could kill me with two fingernails and a daisy-chain if you wanted, I'm guessing, Detective, that you're really just as interested as I am in finding out how good it would be." His grin smoothed out to a suave, seductive, rakish smirk. "Because I think we'll be really, really good." And another shift, back to predatory. "And now I know you've just been teasing me all these weeks, and pretending you weren't interested, and making me chase you… I think it's my turn to tease." The smirk was now quite definitely evil. "Revenge, my dear detective, will be…succulent."

She smirked back at him. "Prove it."

"Like I said. Once you get past the prickles and spikes" – he raked that lascivious gaze up and down her body – "it's beautiful, with a succulent centre."

"I am _not_ a cactus."

"Sure you're not. The cactus doesn't glare, and if it kills me it'll be accidental. You'd do it deliberately."

She emitted a strangulated squawk which turned into a gasp as he scraped a broad thumb over one nipple.

"And I don't want to take the cactus to bed." He did it again, and she grabbed for his hand – and missed. "It wouldn't be nearly as much fun. Or as responsive. So you're definitely not a cactus." A thick finger slid slowly down her cleavage and stopped at the lace edge of the teal panties. She wriggled…

And then she sat up, grabbed his shoulders and shoved his face into her cleavage.

"Too much talking and not enough action."

She wanted _action_? She'd damn well get _action_. _His_ way.

He caught her hands again and pinned them up by her ears, pushing her back down on her delicate pillows, taking her mouth until she mewed and gasped and squirmed under him and arched up the small amount of space he allowed her, to press into him. He left her lips and nuzzled around her jaw; followed with a lick under her ear that brought her grip tightening on his hands and her nails digging in.

"You want action, Beckett?" he whispered darkly into her ear. "You'll get action."

"So _act_," she purred, and bit down on his shoulder. It was the last breeze before the tornado took them both. He stopped teasing, wrenched the bra clasp apart, ripped down the panties, stroked hard through the scalding heat as she sheathed him, dragged his hips into alignment, arched, opened and he thrust once to fill her and it was everything, the whole world in their bodies joined and her fingers scarring his back and her mouth fused to his and battling, fighting, motion and madness and then magnificence.

And then peace.

She lay against him, curled in the crook of his arm, breathing softly, still, a tiny quirk on swollen lips, an elegant finger playing idly with the hair on his chest, eyes closed. He petted her hair, the short spiky cut rioting wildly over his shoulder and tickling his cheek, and then her back, and closed his other hand around hers to pull her closer yet. She murmured sleepily, and snuggled. No spiky prickles now, simply soft satisfaction.

The only teeny tiny technical problem was that he'd just discovered that he'd totally fallen for her. Which, well, hadn't _not_ been the plan, but…not quite so fast or so hard?

Beckett was comfortably cuddled up and barely thinking at all. That had been, um, well…spectacular. _Unlike_ Will, Castle certainly knew how to use it. (_Told you so_.) She was too content even to silence the annoying little voice. Under her pleasantly pillowed head, Castle stretched a little and then winced.

"Mm?" she queried.

"I think I'm bleeding on your pretty bed linen," he grinned. "Who'd've thought you liked flowers with lace and frills?"

She humphed. What was wrong with pretty, soothing bed linen anyway? It wasn't like she needed a rifle-print pattern to be a good cop.

"Don't humph," Castle said. "I didn't say I didn't like it. I like private Beckett very much. Not at all like precinct Beckett. I'll even put up with the scratching and biting."

Another humph. That wasn't her idea of post-coital chat. She turned over, away from him.

"Come back," he said lazily, and ensured it by pulling her round and over him. He surely liked having her there. His delight was obvious. "That's better. Come here and be kissed." Comment didn't seem to be required, nor was there time to speak. He wrapped a big hand around her skull, threaded his fingers into her hair and brought her lips back on to his. After a possessively passionate kiss, he separated them.

"This time, let's take it slow."

"If I don't want to?" she said provocatively.

"Whatever you want. We could always just cuddle." His arm shifted to around her waist, his hand left its insinuating position over her ass. "I like cuddles."

"Mm," she hummed. "Me too." She paused. "But right now, I like the idea of taking it slowly." She dipped her head to his and delicately laid a kiss on his mouth, still more delicately nibbled on his lower lip and then teased it with her tongue, feeling him rise beneath her. Explorer, not conqueror, as she entered and investigated: he a witness, not a suspect.

He took his cues from her, as gentle and sensuous as she, his hands roaming but not demanding, a suggestion that she might accept or decline as she chose. They'd had hard and fast: now they could be slow and easy, banking the fires for later. She rolled, and invited him with a clasp of his arm to roll and lean over her, giving him tacit access to the tips of her breasts, the soft curves, the concavity of her taut stomach and the mound between her hips. No words broke the enveloping silence; only soft half-noises, quietly quickening breathing, the whisper of hand stroking skin and lap of lip on lip.

Another tiny, tacit temptation: her hand moving to his head, the lightest of pushes downward, the smallest of arches to bring breasts upwards. He didn't disappoint, a slow slide southward, a trail of tongue, a tracery of sexuality from light, dancing fingers, and then a cupping from broad palms, a stroke with the thumb, and her arch curved higher until his mouth met the stained-pink areola and, still so slow and sensual, stirred her synapses and sent sexuality slipping through her skin: eroticism's epitome, breaking the silence with soft, delighted moans and mewls, until he wandered nomadic fingers further, no faster: playing the instrument of her sleek body in an andante movement, his own arousal controlled, contained until they should release again. She'd play him, play with him, another time: later, tomorrow.

He traced a winding path across her stomach, found a point which made her wriggle and departed it, sauntered downward, sure of his course and leaving sparking trails behind him, all the sparks following his fingers downwards through the dark triangle covering the curve and into his goal: warm and wet and welcoming him; encouragement in the deeper breath, the whimpered half-gasp of his name.

Stealthily, he slipped and slid and stroked, sending her higher, a fingertip glissade through liquid-surfaced flesh and heat, a little pressure as he circled nerves, a small thrust inside, and she wanted more, rose to him as he brought her up and up, until he slithered down and followed hands with mouth and then tongue, sensation swelling and strengthening; her grip around his skull tightening as his on the soft skin of her inner thighs pushed her slowly wider, held her open for his feast on her succulent centre until she cried out and tensed and shuddered and came hard against him.

The next thing she knew, she was wrapped warmly into his arms. She could feel the smile against her hair; and bathed in the affection. She snuggled closer, giving back warmth and affection of her own. She loved the cuddled-up closeness, and she'd only experienced it for the first time that evening. (_Loved? You said 'loved'. Do we need to talk?_) No, she did not. There was nothing wrong with loving being cuddled. It didn't mean anything more. (_Yeah, right. You never let Will cuddle up. Of course, he didn't make you come like that. Did he ever actually manage to get you off?_)

Beckett ignored the voice in her head in favour of the man in her bed. When she recovered her breath and thoughts, she began to play gently with his chest, sneaking lower with each movement, flickering into the coarse hair, and then circling the thick root, dipping to feather the velvety skin behind. He caught his breath, and his clasp tightened, though she was as slow and delicate as he had been. Gradually, her touch became more intent; circled higher; added width finger by finger till her hand embraced his hard erection and teased up and down the shaft, slicking across the head, up and down and round about. Finally, she added her wicked mouth to affairs, and left Castle as totally, bonelessly satisfied as he had left her. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

Boneless satisfaction didn't prevent him bringing her up to be cuddled and snuggled and cossetted again, however, which was also very satisfying. These were the right sort of cuddles: firm without being suffocating, warm without being overly sweaty, affectionate while leaving open the possibility of something more athletic should they wish to. She _also_ liked, (_loved_) yes, liked, (_stop fibbing. Loved._) that he'd been totally easy with more sex or no sex. No pressure. Mmmm. She wiggled into an even more comfortable alignment, pillowed her head on his pecs, wrapped an arm around that lovely broad chest to make sure it didn't go anywhere, and shut her eyes, surrounded by aroma-of-Castle and arm-of-Castle. Perfect.

Castle cuddled his delightful armful of dozing, sated Beckett and decided that, once he'd gotten past the prickles, she was as soft, succulent and sexy as he could ever have dreamt and hoped. He simply wanted to keep her there with him all the time. He was _so_ over his head. Usually, he was the one who had everything and he was the one who was chased and (very willingly) caught. Beckett didn't care about his money, his fame, or anything that either could buy. She… oh. Oh oh oh. Which meant, Castle berated himself, that she actually wanted him. _Only_ him. Not his wallet or royalties or social kudos… simply, merely, only, Rick Castle. He liked that. Scratch it. He _loved_ that. In that moment, he couldn't possibly have been happier…except if he were _sure_ that Beckett would be there tomorrow…and the day after…and the week after…and forever.

Oh, God. He was so done for.

Snuggled against him, Beckett murmured in her sleep and wiggled closer, turning her hand around his ribs in a thoroughly possessive fashion. He'd swear the mutter contained the word _mine_, and slipped into sleep with _mine too_ on his lips.

* * *

Castle was shocked into total wakefulness by Beckett's ear-shattering alarm, at which she groaned and shut it off without needing to look. He groaned, too. He had no idea what time it was, but he was quite certain it was far too early. Beckett was _always_ in work far too early, which was a huge flaw in her personality.

On which irrelevant thought he realised that he was still in bed with Beckett, and that both of them were still (one) cuddled up together, (two) sticky and disgusting and (three, which quite overrode the first two) naked. Abruptly, he woke _up_.

Beckett emitted a contented little murmur, curled in against him – and then her eyes popped open and reality hit.

"Huh? _Castle_?"

"Yep," he confirmed happily. "Me. Hello."

"Hey." She blinked at him. "You're really here."

"Yep." A pit began to open in his stomach.

"I wasn't dreaming."

"Nope." Surely some weird alien tech had removed his abdomen.

She grinned. "Good. We've got time for a shower, then."

"Ur-uh-_what_?"

"I'm going to have a shower. You can sleep or" – she smiled wickedly – "join me." She sauntered to the bathroom, hips undulating enticingly. Castle's utter shock yielded instantly to utter lust. He prowled after her, and caught her just as she switched on the shower.

"That was mean." He tugged her in, and kissed her hard, to show that he wouldn't be messed with. It didn't seem to be having any deterrent effect, since she was messing with him pretty effectively. Her hands were _wicked_, and they were committing elegantly evil crimes all over him. She dragged him into the shower, and continued. It wasn't fair. He wasn't awake enough to stop her doing whatever she pleased, although _oh fuck oh Beckett ohohoh fu-u-uck_ actually he didn't care.

He washed her very carefully, with strict attention to detail, such as the placement of shower gel, the perfect massage to rub it in, and the places where shower gel was not required. And finally he replaced fingers with hard flesh and…well, then they had to wash up all over again.

"I'd better get home," Castle said.

"See you at the precinct."

Beckett didn't seem bothered at all by his desertion. The pit in his stomach returned. Then she stretched up the inch or so her heels required, took his mouth in a leisurely, possessive fashion that fried his brain, and disappeared in the direction of the Twelfth.

Castle disappeared in the direction of his loft, and reached it in good time to change and be (apparently) placidly concocting breakfast when Alexis tumbled down the stairs, ravenous. While he made the meal, he considered his options for arriving at the precinct, and in particular any…um…detours he might make along the way.

Beckett swung off to the precinct in an exceedingly good mood – better, in fact, than for many months. Satisfaction had had a stunning effect on her. On the way, she detoured to Roz's Florals, and had a short conversation with her, which resulted in the production of a bunch of very specific flowers. By the time the boys arrived, they were resting in a jar of water on her desk. Neither Espo nor Ryan commented. They liked _living_ their lives.

Castle broke his journey to the Twelfth with a visit to his florist, with whom he had a detailed conversation, prolonged by the necessity of choosing flowers which were immediately available. He bounced into the Twelfth feeling particularly pleased with his choice.

Beckett stared at the flowers in Castle's hand. Castle stared at the flowers on Beckett's desk. Ryan and Espo came to see what was going on, and stared at both of them.

"Why've you both got the same flowers?"

"Who's hitting on both of you? Wanna share with the class?"

"Bet it's that uniform, Nolan, from LA. Looks a lot like Castle" – Castle himself spluttered and fumed: he did _not_ –

"And I bet he wants to hook up with Castle's girl."

Beckett growled, and the glare she levelled at Ryan also eliminated most of the debris in the geostationary orbit. "_Girl_?" she gritted. "I am not anyone's_ girl_." It was possibly just as well that the boys weren't looking at Castle's smug face, which said _she's not my girl, but she surely is my woman_. Beckett turned the glare on Castle, to which he merely smiled sweetly and declined to comment.

"So why've you both got the same flowers?"

"I got these for Beckett," Castle said smoothly. "Flowers brighten up the bullpen and the day." Beckett remained obdurately silent, and the glare intensified.

"Why don't you bring us flowers?" the boys complained.

"You never bring me any," Beckett pointed out, "and it's inappropriate between co-workers anyway. Save it for your girlfriends – if you ever get any." She smiled nastily. "Maybe if you got them a few more flowers they'd last a bit longer?"

The boys rapidly found something to do a long way from Beckett's sarcasm.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_Hawkie, my definition indicated "endurance". Take that as you will :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

She looked up at Castle. "You brought flowers."

"Er…yeah? So did you."

"Um, yeah."

They looked at each other and the twin bunches of forsythia and jonquils, the blooms in cheerful shades of yellow with a little green foliage.

"I've got paperwork."

"I've got Angry Birds."

The rest of the day passed without a single comment on the flowers, their potential meanings, or the previous night and that morning. The flowers watched, and kept their meanings to their silent selves, until shift end arrived.

Castle picked up his bunch, Beckett hers.

"Wanna ride?" Beckett asked.

"Sure."

Both of them were totally casual.

"Hold my flowers?"

"Sure."

The engine turned over, and Beckett pulled out.

"Want to come back for coffee?"

"That's what the cool kids call it?"

"Coffee," she said repressively, and didn't rise to any bait for the whole journey, nor as they entered the apartment, nor as she made the coffee while Castle searched out two separate vases and put the flowers in them.

He sat beside her, drank his coffee, and then grinned. "Anticipation?"

"Affection desired?" she said in the same inviting tone.

"Guess you meant it."

"Guess _you_ did."

"Cactus," he said affectionately – "Ow! Don't _do _that."

"Not a cactus," she said, muffled by his mouth, which stopped her protests as his hands found her and shortly began to remove anything between his skin and hers. She sighed, relaxed into the touch, and returned the favour, opening his button-down and sliding it from his shoulders.

"Wanna get a little more comfortable?" she teased.

"Sure." Castle stood up, pulled her after him, swooped and swept her into his arms and to her bedroom. "I've been anticipating this all day. Just like the flowers said." He grinned as he laid her down on the bed, disposing of her jeans as he straightened up. "It's fate, you know." She quirked her eyebrows. "We think the same, and now we choose the same flowers without even talking to each other. We match."

"We do not."

"Oh?" Castle purred dangerously. "I think we do. I mean, you're a workaholic control freak and I'm a procrastinator who goes with the flow" – she was still squawking as he stripped his pants off – "but we're perfect together. In the precinct and in bed."

"You… I should have got you a bunch of narcissi."

"Very mean. You like me really. Especially when I'm kissing you." He demonstrated. Beckett certainly seemed to like it. "I like you, too. I really like those sexy scraps of silk that are pretending to be underwear." He drew a line along the top edge of her deep blue panties, and smiled wolfishly. "Both of them." He dipped his head, and traced the dip of her cleavage with his tongue; leaned up on an elbow and raked hot eyes over her. She examined him in turn, and scraped one clear-polished nail from clavicles to navel. Her touch tingled, and she smirked knowingly.

Castle wasn't inclined to play second fiddle to Beckett's conducting of affairs. He smiled back at her, equally knowing, and slid one of her arms under him. "Where was I? Oh, yes. Here." He followed the line he'd traced with his tongue with his fingers, and then cupped her whole breast in one broad hand, dusting lightly over the fabric and the peaked nipple with his thumb, teasing lightly. She pushed into his touch, the movement demanding more. He slowed: becoming deliberate, working her up.

Of course, Beckett wasn't simply going to lie back and let him have it all his own way. Her long fingers glided down his back and landed up on his ass; the other hand glided equally insinuatingly down his front and landed up just at the band of his boxers, where it paused. Her fingertips moved tantalisingly, without doing anything which might actually be definitive. It was excruciatingly erotic, and left Castle excruciatingly ready simply to _take_ her.

But he wouldn't. He was going to seduce her into total satiation. Surrender would also have been nice, but was outright impossible. In their few weeks of acquaintance, it was perfectly plain that Beckett didn't do surrendering. She only did winning. Well, he'd won too. They were both winning. Even if he'd had to chase her, the results were _so_ worth it. He palmed and played with her perfect pulchritude, and while she was playing too, her movements were becoming sloppier and sloppier as he was turning her into a puddle of lust in a Beckett-shaped body.

It was just too tempting. He sneaked his fingers around her back to take the pretty bra away, and replaced hands with mouth.

It wasn't fair. He had no _right_ to be able to use his fingers and hands like that. She'd wanted to turn him into a seething mass of desperation and instead she was dissolving into a hot mess and she was sure he'd barely even started. (_I'm not seeing the problem here_, said the little voice in her head. _You enjoyed him plenty yesterday._) He carried on, and she could barely focus on her attempts to retaliate, still less stop the embarrassingly enthusiastic noises. (_Still not seeing a problem._) She couldn't reduce him to incoherent desperation: that was the problem. (_Nope, not a problem. Just enjoy it. He was right when he said you were a total control freak. Out-of-control is good for you._)

And then he put his mouth on her breasts and even the interminably-irritating voice was silenced. Oh God. Oh _fuck_. _Oh Castle! _ He didn't just know what to do with his hands. That _mouth_. Oh _fuck_. It could do things that ought to be illegal. She'd thought his lips were soft and mobile when she kissed them. She'd had no idea he could use them like that. He hadn't done _that_ yesterday. (_Are you sure?_) She was. She knotted her hands into his hair and hung on, as he delivered a master-class in appreciation of her breasts.

Castle couldn't leave her breasts alone. They were perfect. Perfectly sized to fit his hands, perfectly sized to be kissed and lipped and laved and sucked and oh-so-carefully nipped, very gently. The effect was everything he'd wanted to give her: tiny moans and cries; arching to him and moving against him and totally, utterly, uncontrolled. She was beautiful: clutching at him and wholly in the moment and _all his_ and ohhhhh she came apart on a long thin cry and fell back, spent. He gathered her in, and petted her. Sex was scintillating, but finding that Beckett would snuggle was the cherry on top of the frosting on top of the cake.

He surveyed her. "Blush rose."

"Huh?"

"Blush rose. Your skin. All cream except where it's beautifully flushed pink. I like roses. But…" He rolled her on to her back. "…I like most flowers. Where the bee sups," he sang.

Her eyes widened. "You're too big to be Ariel."

"You_ got_ that?"

"Why wouldn't I, Caliban?"

"I am _not_."

Beckett sniggered. "You insulted me first. Of course I got it."

"So hot," he murmured, "though I really like you all cuddled up too. I'd never have thought you did lilac and lace, either. More Arsenic and Old Lace, likely in my coffee."

"It's an option," she flipped back, but she was still all snuggled up close in his arms and really, he couldn't believe her snippiness was true any more.

"Back to being prickly. I guess it goes with the territory. I'll just have to put up with the thorns." Beckett muttered something. Castle ignored it. "But right now you're not that prickly, and you're all mine." He ran a lazy hand down her side, and wound up on her hip, fingertips curling around into the dip in front of the crest of bone. She made a soft sound, which wasn't _quite_ a purr, but which Castle felt could easily be encouraged to become so. His fingers wandered, and found flushed flesh, warm and wet, infinitely strokable; the soft, succulent centre of his Beckett-cactus. She twisted towards him, her hand grasping at his side to try to pull him down over her, still trying to stay in control. He trailed wicked fingers through her once again, and she made a curious little noise: half-whimper, half-mew, and pushed against his touch.

He wanted to take her slowly, with hands and then mouth: reduce her to squirming, desperate desire so that she'd never want anyone except him. He'd drowned without a struggle, as soon as she'd kissed him. He was so totally into her; she _had_ to be into him. He didn't know what he'd do if she wasn't equally into him, and right now he knew that she was delighted to be in bed with him but he didn't know how much further it went.

He was so good at it. Her. (_Both. Which should be encouraged._) Yes. But… (_But what? You've got what you wanted, and all you did was play hard to get for a few weeks._) Yeah. She supposed so. But… (_What? What's your problem?_) What if he just…what if he only wanted a brief liaison? She… oh, hell. She wanted more. And yes, he was clearly delighted to be in bed with her but she didn't know how much further it went. (_You have got it bad. Well, hallelujah! About damn time._) What? (_About time you got invested in wanting a relationship._) What had Will been? (_Chopped liver. And less use._)

She firmly ignored the voice and fell back into Castle's expert touch. Thinking was _not_ required, and he was removing her ability to think with surgical precision. His broad fingers were astonishingly adept at finding every single nerve ending as they stroked and slipped and slid and teased; circling and dipping, then taking her until she gasped and moaned and arched. When she couldn't focus, never mind think, he shifted downwards, kissing all the way down from collarbones to navel, pausing with a wickedly knowing smile and then dipping his head again.

She shrieked, and would have been embarrassed if he hadn't done exactly the same evil, erotic, _wonderful_ thing again. And again. And again, until she was so sensitised that she couldn't bear it any longer and cried out his name and came on the cry. (_I'd keep him, if I were you. Of course, I am you. So we'll keep him._) Great. So now she was schizophrenic as well as everything else. Anyway, it wasn't up to her. (_What? Who else is it up to?_) Well, it was just faintly possible, Beckett said to herself with extreme sarcasm, that Castle might have a view. Which took her right back to the previous worry. What if he didn't want to get into a relationship? His public history wasn't…um…encouraging. She curled into a ball.

Castle had been feeling distinctly smug at his success in turning Beckett into a puddle of sated satisfaction. Surely she'd want to stick with him? They were perfect together, and he wanted to spend a lot more time proving it. She was…well, already he couldn't imagine not having her there with him. But now she'd curled up, away from him and he couldn't understand why. She should be cuddling in and snuggling and soft and what if she didn't want more? He turned her round and unfurled her a little: just enough to kiss her hair.

"Don't run away," he said. "I don't want you to hide." As soon as he'd said it, he quailed. Exposing real feelings after only a few weeks and two nights? They hadn't even tried to date. She'd be running for the hills in seconds.

She peeped out at him, astonishingly shy, doubt all over her face.

"Come out," he coaxed. "I wanna cuddle."

The peep altered to a familiar expression of disbelief, which, to be fair, given his current tumescent state, was likely wholly justified.

"Cuddle?"

"Yep. I mean, sure, I'd like to do lots more, but cuddles are good. I like cuddles."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do." He cuddled her, to prove it. She wriggled, and made herself comfortable. Comfortable appeared to entail stretching a long leg around Castle's middle, in a position which left him a scant inch from nirvana. She wriggled again.

"I think you'll like this more," she breathed, and slid to enclose him.

Okay, she had a point. She felt so _good_ around him: tight and hot and wet and _his_, all his, and right there.

He fit her perfectly: touching all the right places; just the right side of too big; just right. She moved a little, slowly, finding her way, not wanting the hard, fast, rough initial experience of the previous night (_but you liked it_) – yes, but not right now – but a slower, sensual coupling. Castle caught her mood precisely and moved slowly himself, seemingly happy to be under her, though he could easily have flipped them. (_He's happy to let you choose. Very unselfish._)

The slow movement strengthened, mouths met, tongues tangled: it might be slow but it wasn't tentative. (_Controlled force. We like that._) Beckett did like that: each push hitting the spot, building her desire into the surging force that allowed her to give up, let go, and enjoy. She still set the pace, but their movements were becoming less controlled, less deliberate, and then sloppy and frantic and faster and faster till he thrust up and she pushed down and they hit a hard rhythm that was totally perfect and then exploded.

Castle didn't see any need to move. Beckett wasn't heavy, and she could stay atop him for a very long time before he had any reason to change it. He wrapped his arms around her, caging her against him. She didn't object to using his chest as a pillow. Somewhat to his surprise, as she came down from her orgasmic high, she tensed. His stomach curdled.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hiding his uncertainty. "I know you liked it," he added, faking arrogance and then completely contradicting it by cossetting her more closely and petting her hair. Nothing happened. "C'mon, cactus. What's up?"

There was a short silence. Then – "Why _holly_?"

"Uh?" She hadn't killed him for calling her _cactus_? Unless he was dead and hadn't noticed? He surreptitiously pinched himself, which hurt, and decided he wasn't dead yet.

"Why holly?"

Castle rearranged his brain cells to form coherent thoughts. "Uh," he stumbled. Why _had_ he chosen holly? "It suited you," he said, which conveniently gave little away.

"I looked it up," she said with a snap. "Try again."

Interrogation in bed was _not fair_. Hot, but _not fair_. How could naked, nearly-snuggly Beckett still be so blazingly intimidating? It was unnatural.

"Because it's what you do," he eventually forced out, to the back of her head. "Defend, protect, look out for people."

There was silence, which extended for far too long for Castle's comfort. There was no snuggling in. There was, in fact, utter stillness. Castle trepidatiously put a hand on Beckett's spine. Half a microsecond later, he had hauled her round and into his arms and cuddled her as tightly as he could without breaking any of her ribs.

"Don't," he said, and petted. "Don't shiver like that. I'll think you don't like me."

"You _meant _it?"

"Er… yes?"

Beckett abruptly turned into him and did a fair job of removing all his breath by means of breaking four ribs as she flung her arms around him.

"You were _worried_?" Castle said disbelievingly. "You? Detective _I-don't-care-if-your-heart-is-on-the-floor_ Beckett was _worried_ that _I_ didn't mean it?"

"It's not me who's got the reputation as the town playboy, with a new piece of arm candy every week. How was I supposed to know you meant it? You tried to get into my pants the moment you met me."

"Ur…urgh," Castle said, intelligently. It was true. It was merely…um…incomplete. Now. "I want _you_," he insisted. "I just want you."

Beckett gleeped, and clung harder, which was just fine, because Castle was clinging to her pretty tightly himself, in case she tried to run away again. It occurred to him that she might have the same objective.

"I'm not the one hiding here," he said plaintively. "So there's no need to break my ribs or dig your nails in." The grip relaxed marginally, though Castle was sure he'd have bruises and nail marks around his ribs. "C'mon. Stop hiding, so I can kiss you. I like kissing you."

"I'd noticed," Beckett said, dryly; but she was still buried in his chest rather than arriving at his lips.

"So come and be kissed, then." He tugged, and she came up. So did Castle. She wiggled, and smirked. "I'm pleased to see you," he grinned back.

"Hot rod."

"Sure am."

"It's a dahlia," which rapidly quelled his pride.

"Cactus," he retorted.

She growled. "Don't call me a cactus."

"Don't be spiky with me, then," but it was suavely smooth, and came with a sensual stroke along her side.

She pushed out her lower lip. "What should I be?" she flirted, all her insecurity gone.

"Mine."

He pulled her down, flipped them over, and demonstrated exactly how she should be his: taking her mouth possessively; a little weight holding her beneath him; his tongue invading and exploring and conquering; her hands locked in his; hard length pressing on soft, damp centre. She arched and moaned, rolling against him; slipping and sliding to bring him to her entrance, and then she pushed down and took him in before he could thwart her goal. He groaned her name, flexed, and finished the movement to fill her full; she clutched his shoulders and pulled him down to her again and then they hit their rhythm and then there was nothing but them.

"I don't mind if you're spiky outside," Castle murmured, "as long as you're soft with me here. Or in my loft. Or anywhere we're alone together."

Beckett merely hummed contentedly, and nestled in. Castle took that as wholesale agreement, on the grounds that he'd have known all about it if she disagreed. When he woke in the morning with her still tucked against him – _snuggled_ – he was sure of it.

* * *

Castle continued to provide Beckett with carefully judged – and frequently exceedingly annoyingly structured – bouquets, every week. However much she grumped and growled in public, in private she appreciated both the flowers and Castle; especially when she…um…_interpreted_ the coded messages.

The one thing he never gave her was red roses. As time went on, a tiny space in her heart wondered why that lack worried her. It wasn't as if he didn't prove in every way that he appreciated her, that he cared.

And so, when Valentine's Day rolled around again, Beckett took matters into her own hands. She visited Roz's Florals in good time, and placed her order, to be delivered, _not_ collected.

"Hey," Castle said, just as normal, as he wandered into the precinct, late, with only coffee in his hands.

Of course Beckett hadn't expected roses in the precinct. But she had expected some comment on the delivery. Still, the bullpen was busy and maybe he was waiting for a quiet moment.

Quiet moments came and went, without a single comment. By the end of the day, Beckett had a misery-tension headache and was completely convinced that Valentine's Day should be banned. Castle hadn't even _tried_ to flirt, or be romantic, or say a single word that couldn't have been heard by the entire bullpen, or which was anything other than G-rated.

At shift end she stood up, planning to go home via a budget-bustingly excellent chocolate store. There was vodka at home, too. Tonic was not required.

"Night, Castle."

"Yep," he said. "Let's go."

"I'm going home."

"Yep," he said again. He followed her into the elevator and into her car.

"I'll drop you at the loft."

"Nuh-uh. I'm coming back with you. We need to talk."

Well, that was just the total tin lid on the disaster of the day. Couldn't he have done that earlier? At least then she'd have known the truth.

Beckett drove home in stony silence, which persisted all the way to her apartment. Castle didn't break it.

"What the – oh my God," she gasped as she opened the door. "You…you…"

On the table was a bouquet of red roses. On the kitchen counter was another. On the coffee table by the couch was a third. Castle quietly shut the door behind her as she stared around. She dropped her coat, scarf and hat, which he picked up and put in their proper places, with his.

"I got your message. I love you, too."

_**Fin.**_

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_This little tale is done. Next up, when I finish it, a much longer story. If you want something in the interim, there is always Death in Focus (if I don't tell you about it, who will?), which I commend to those of you who have not tried it._


End file.
